Saturday, February 28, 2009

If you don't believe that exercise remodels the brain chemistry, try exercising habitually for say, uh... I don't know... 12 years, then stop suddenly... because you have... oh, I don't know... a strain in the obliques maximus (pronounced oh-bleek-ess max-i-mus).

There's no such thing as the obliques maximus. But when I've got an injury, however paltry it might be, it always occurs in the maximus. Tendinitis in the ankle? Tendinitis in the ankelous maximus. Metatarsal stress fracture? Stress fracture of the metatarsal maximus. Blister? Blisterious maximus. Plantar Fasciitis? Fasciitis in the plantar maximus. Iliotibial band syndrome? Syndrome of the Iliotibial band maximus.

Injuries are funny creatures with nagging personalities. Not only do injuries inflict physical pain, they creep into the cerebellum with doomsday logic. What if I can't run again?! Is it permanent?! What if I lose the conditioning?! What if I can't wear my cute outfits?! What will I do with alll of those extra sharpies?!

With this particular strain of the side abdominal maximus, a distinctly haunting theory wagered its way into my thought process.... Can I still be the rabidrunner if I don't run?

Friday, February 27, 2009

As I cleaned this shower, I discovered many splatters of nostril discharge - all in various forms of density, color and crystallization. That's right, I discovered boogers. Lots of them. They were here - there - EVERYWHERE!

The first thing I did was blame spouse. 'Cause that's what you do when you're married.

Then I decided to take ownership. Taking ownership is my new thing.

After careful and scrutinizing inspection of all the boogers, one (me being the "one") can conclude that a booger doesn't reveal it's owner. A booger doesn't have a name or imprint or even a color that symbolizes who it belongs to.

The only time a booger exposes its owner is when it's dripping down a face after an explosive sneeze or smeared on a shirt sleeve. If I wanted to point a nose-pickin' finger at the creator of those boogers in my shower, I needed DNA sampling.

We all know DNA won't distinguish who's boogers are who's 'cause Spouse and I are married. Naturally we have the same DNA.

Naturally.

(Just between you and me... the shower is my favorite place to blow my nose. It's magically liberating to just blow and let it flow.)

Friday, February 20, 2009

I have purchased. Due to the cold and whatnot (my being a wimp is the whatnot), I was stuck on a treadmill the other day. Treadmill mileage is treacherous. I had a great playlist going so it wasn't so bad. Until.... until... UNTIL... the left ear bud went kapoot. Couldn't do it.

Got off the treacherous treadmill, drove to the Randy Radio Shack and purchased. Got back in the car, drove back to the gym and climbed aboard the treadmill.

I believe I've messed up at work. It's given me anxiety now for over a week. I'm trying very hard to take ownership. But the truth is... I thought I was giving an above par performance for my capabilities. Now I've been informed that I've done it all wrong. As I look back over the last few months it has occurred to me that I have received only "corrections" not "guidance".

So how do I balance my ownership of this mess without justifying or blaming someone else? Or even worse, without allowing tears to surface because of it. (Now I'm crying because I don't know if I should end that last sentence with a question mark or a period.)

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Not sad. Not happy. Nothing. So what do I do when this happens? I start typing. Let it all out. Then come back to ixnay on the cuss words. That last step is crucial. I don't want my posterity or heaven forbid, the in-laws, to know about my trash talkin' mush mouth.

It's quite magical, really. To sit down, type and type and type, and think and stew without hesitation. You should try it. Sit down and just type. Type every last word that comes into the head, every last image. And don't hesitate. If you hesitate you'll ruin the experience and you might miss something important.

For example... I have just now discovered that I was wrong about feeling blah. The real feeling here is....

I'm not hungry. And it's good to be hungry.Hunger intensifies. Hunger motivates. Hunger is the process. Hunger brightens. Hunger challenges. Hunger makes you wantmore.It is the hunger that makes you who you are. Not the acquisition.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

WARNING - there's some language in this one. It's not my language. It's some joker I've never met. I have censored where possible but it's just like an episode of Cops. Consider yourself warn-ned.

This is what I get to put up with:

"um it shouldn't matter, so in order to get my returns i got to wait for all of my returns to come in? F*** OFF PEOPLE NEED THEIR MONEY I WASN'T GOING ABOUT WHAT I NEED MY MONEY NOW! And I can't change my return it was already accepted and money put in my bank, I need to send ANOTHER TOTALLY DIFFERANT SET OF W-2's IN IT SHOULDN'T MATTER WHEN THE F*** THEY ARE SENT ASLONG AS BOTH ARE BEFORE THE DEADLINE! YOU ALL NEED TO BE F***ING SHOT YOUR ALL A BUNCH OF MONEY SCAMMING BITCHES!"... And then I got more. Because obviously IT wasn't finished (It's an ITbecause only people without balls yell at nice Mormon girls answering tax questions on the Sabbath).

"After I finished my forms on the other site it wouldn't let me add another w-2! F*** ALL OF YOU! You only care about getting your f***ing money the IRS could give to sh*** if they owe you and they won't go to jail if they take forever to get their money back to you but you owe them money and they'll toss your ass in prison!"... Note that as of today, said joker hasn't paid us a dime. Here's my response:

"I apologize for the inconvenience this has caused you. Unfortunately, we are bound by the rules made by congress and the IRS. I would give you a refund, but you didn't pay us anything. Once again, I apologize and best of luck to you."

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

You do it in cars. You do it in bedrooms. You do it on the front lawn. You sneak it in on elevators. You do it where we eat. You do it during important conversations, movies, and concerts. You do it during your first born's theatrical debut.

What is it that you're doing? You're Texting.

Not only is it annoying, fragmenting, and invasive... it's slaughtering the English language! It's taking the Commune out of Cate. It's taking the Inter out of Act. It's taking the Ac out of Quaint. It's taking the Corres out of Pond. And most painstakingly... it might remove the rabid from the runner.

How exactly is it slaughtering the English language? The first clue is that "Text" has become a verb. The second clue? You can spell a word with a number in the middle of it - which I thought was reserved for license plates. The third clue? You're limited to 160 characters (give or take a few). A measly hundred-sixty will never house any of my diatribes.

Do you know how hard it is to teach your 5 year old Yahoo how to read in this environment?

CYA L8TR! ILY, BFF!

WTC (the Mormon way to say WTF - LOL).

*Go on... let me have it. I've finished five hours of tax complaints. I can surely take your criticism over my opinion on this one...

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Came in the e-mail today. 13" of new.Which means I'll mope around all day feeling sorry for myself.Then I'll remind the Yahoos that their school schedulesand need for babysitting ruined the powder days of my 30's.

Monday, February 02, 2009

The little rascal saw his shadow... 6 more weeks of winter. Think snow!(Do we really know whether or not that little Phil really saw his shadow? I mean, does Phil even care about his shadow? Does Phil know what a shadow is? I could go on and on.)

Sunday, February 01, 2009

I guess the Amish feel it necessary to pass sourdough starts with their chain letters. This is alright because the finished product is pretty good. If you don't know what I mean, I'll give you a brief sin-opsis.

You get a plastic bag full of rotten milk, flour and sugar. You fondle the bag a few times a day for 5 days. On the 5th day you add milk, flour and sugar. Continue the fondling for 5 more days. After those 10 days are up, you add more milk, flour and sugar and split it up. You give half of the rotten concoction to 3-4 friends and they repeat the 10-day fondle-fest. Think of the perpetual possibilities of this one. It could make it to Mongolia, Bill Gates might send you a dollar and we'll have World Peace!

(By the way, did you notice the artistic alliteration in that paragraph? Oh how I have ardor for alliterations.)

With the remaining 1/2 of the start you make bread. Actually it's more like cake. But for some reason those Anti-Automation Pennsylvania-People want to call it bread.

I have a bone to pick with this whole "Amish" theory however. The clue is in the recipe. See if you can find it: